


Snap the Line Tight

by orphan_account



Category: Hunger Games (2012), Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: F/M, Forced Prostitution, Tags to be updated with future chapters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-18
Updated: 2013-02-19
Packaged: 2017-11-29 19:18:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/690515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Finnick is used to the whoring-summons, but this time the summons is for Annie.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic deals with Finnick's forced prostitution at Snow's hands. I will provide warnings in the notes at the start of each chapter that portrays graphic sexual assault or other violence. This chapter contains one brief explicit reference to sexual violence.

CHAPTER ONE

                A mid-spring day in District 4, and things are about as perfect as they can be in Panem.  The sun is hot enough to make working in the water a pleasure; a light breeze teases Finnick’s nose with the combined scents of the ocean and of Annie’s flowers, the lavender and baby’s breath she’s planted around the path, the yarrow in the window boxes. Annie herself has been spending the day with Mags, and she’ll come home feeling safe, comforted, and loved – a day with Mags always does that for her.  The problem: today is a mail-check day, and Finnick has been frozen by the mailbox for a half a minute, unable to touch it.

                The only letters Finnick ever gets in the mail are summonses from President Snow, ordering him to report to the Capitol for scheduled “assignations”.   And ten years ago, when they started coming, Finnick thought he might get used to them in time.  Thought the dread might fade, thought he might adjust, learn not to mind.  A decade later, he’s learned surface calm, but that’s all.  The dread never lessened.  The nightmare became ordinary, but he never learned to like it any better.

                So Finnick worked out a system years ago for checking his mail.  At the beginning, back when just the sight of a cream envelope made him throw up, he tended to let it go for a week or two at a time, but when he nearly missed several assignations and therefore nearly got his mother killed, he knew he was going to have to work something out.  After a few years he got it down pat.  There’s a rhythm to the summonses; they wax and wane with the months of the year.  In the month leading up to the Games and the month after them he lives in the Capitol full-time, on call.  But then things slacken, and early fall means twice-a-week mail checks, late fall once a week, winter every ten days. Early spring is twice weekly, and mid-spring is three times a week.  He has the mail-check days circled on a little paper calendar that he keeps hidden from Annie.  Today is the first day of the three-times-a-week schedule.  Which leaves him standing on the little gravel path that winds around the house to the front door, trying to make himself open the damn mailbox.

                _Come on_ , he tells himself.  _If you don’t check, Annie might._  He pictures the look on her face, contorted by sobs, pictures her pressing her hands to her ears, going to hide in the bed under a pillow.  He always softens the truth of his whoring for Annie; he needs to keep her at a remove from it, for her and for himself.  He doesn’t want her handling a summons.

               So he closes his eyes, steels himself, and opens the mailbox.  

               His fingers brush paper.  Another one.

                _Damn_ it.

                He keeps his eyes closed for a minute, wondering who it’ll be this time. The best-case scenario would be Julia Brialen, a regular client who’s a favorite of his because she never demands anything from him but straight missionary and doesn’t seem to notice or care if he tunes out.  Caesar Flickerman’s wife Livia is a common client this time of year, as her husband’s television schedule heats up in the leadup to the Games and she gets to feeling abandoned.  It could be just some stranger wanting a quick blowjob or vanilla fuck, he supposes. Then his stomach drops as he realizes he hasn’t heard from Fausta and Caius for awhile.  They’re a couple who’re into whips and chains with their threesomes, and they like to draw blood and screams.  The knot in his stomach tightens, making him feel nauseous.   Well, only one way to find out.   He opens his eyes.

                The summons is the same as ever, a square parchment-hued envelope addressed in elegant purple calligraphy.  Snow’s bold copperplate signature is in the upper-left corner, in case Finnick had any doubt as to its origin.  He lifts the envelope and slips a finger under the flap, poised to slit it open and find out whom he will be servicing this time.

                And then his heart stops and a sharp breath whistles out of him as if someone has just punched him in the chest.  He feels the world start to spin and he nearly falls, stumbling into the wall of the house.   His vision has switched into zoom mode, and the visible world has narrowed down to this small square of paper.

                Because it isn’t addressed to him.

                It’s addressed to Annie.

                


	2. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains brief references to sexual violence.

               “No,” Finnick whispers, and slumps against the wall, letting the wave of dizziness wash over him.  This doesn’t happen.  _Hallucination_ , he thinks.  _Must be_. He closes his eyes again and counts five, then opens them.  The envelope hasn’t changed.  _Annie Cresta_.

 

                But the thing is that this can’t be happening, this does not happen, never, not in years.  The Capitol johns don’t want Annie anymore.  They wanted her at first, back when all they knew of her was that she was one of the loveliest tributes to win the Games in years, back when her soft helplessness appealed to them.  She got called in three times, and then the fourth time she started screaming and couldn’t stop and the client got offended and kicked her in the stomach and broke two of her ribs, then threw her out the door.  Then he complained to Snow, and so they killed Annie’s kid sister Grace, sliced her open from throat to abdomen and left her body in the middle of her kitchen floor. And that was when Annie lost it completely, having flashbacks every other minute, having seizures, shrieking and sobbing every second until they put her on heavy tranquilizers that kept her in bed for a month. None of that is sexy, and so Annie doesn’t get summoned anymore.

 

                How can this be happening?

 

                The next thing Finnick knows he’s in the cottage, dialing Snow’s number.  His ankle hurts, and when he looks behind him he sees shards of wood all over the floor, a mess of broken splinters where the lock used to be; he must have kicked in the lock on the door.  Then a calm female voice comes through the phone line – “Office of President Snow, how can I help you?” and he shakes his head furiously, as if he’s trying to get water out of his ears, and tells her, “I need to talk to President Snow right now.  Finnick Odair.”

 

                “I’m sorry, he’s not available right now.  If you’d like to leave a message –“

 

                “No, I don’t want to leave a fucking _message_.  Put him on the phone _right the fuck now_ or _–_ “

 

                She hangs up on him.

 

                He glances at the wood littering the floor again and forces himself to try to calm down.  Closes his eyes and counts ten, breathing deeply, then opens his eyes.  Reaches for the phone, then realizes that he still can’t think of anything to say that doesn’t involve swearing, so he closes his eyes again.  More deep breathing.  More counting.  He has to count two hundred before he can pick up the phone.

 

                “Office of President Snow, how can I help you?”

 

                Finnick lowers his voice a bit, makes it smooth and charismatic.  “Hello, Plutarch Heavensbee here. Put me through to the President, would you?” 

 

                “Of course.  One moment, Mr. Heavensbee,” she says respectfully, and the phone switches into hold music. Finnick waits, tapping his foot, struggling to retain a measure of calm.

 

                The hold music cuts off abruptly. “Plutarch.  Hello,” Snow says, his voice courteous.  “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

 

                Finnick takes a deep breath.  “It’s not Heavensbee, President.  It’s –“

 

                “Mr. Odair.”  Snow doesn’t sound surprised, just resigned.  “I was expecting your call.”

 

                “You can’t do this,” Finnick says, fighting to control his desperation. “You know you can’t.”

 

                “I don’t know anything of the kind,” Snow says, his voice still polite.  “Naturally I wouldn’t have chosen to summon Annie, but I had a special request from quite an important patron.  What could I do?”

 

                “You have to tell him she can’t do it!”

 

                “Oh, I’m sure she can.  Simply bring her to the hotel at eight next Saturday, and Mr. Allan will take care of the rest.”

 

                “You know that’s not how it works!  She’ll have a breakdown, start screaming, sobbing –“

 

                “Oh, but I’m afraid that’s why he’s chosen her.”  He sighs deeply, phoniness breathing through every syllable.  “Sad to say, but there are some people out there who get – how should I say it? – a _kick_ out of that sort of thing.  Barbaric, of course, but what can we do?”

 

                No.  No no no no no _no no no no_.  “You can’t.  _Please_.”  Tears have sprung to Finnick’s eyes; he swipes them away with a savage motion.

 

                “As I said before, you know very well that I can.”

 

                “Look,” Finnick says, speaking too loudly now.  “Give me to him instead.  I’ll scream and cry and have convulsions and do whatever he wants, just –“

 

                Snow begins to laugh.  “Dear Mr. Odair, I admire your devotion, but Mr. Allan is quite uninterested in men, no matter how attractive.”

 

                “What’s the difference?  He just wants to stick his dick in a hole!”  Finnick’s yelling now.  “Tell him I give the best blowjobs in Panem.  It’s got to be true by now.”

 

                “Odair,” Snow says, his voice notably cooler,  “I do not appreciate being spoken to this way.  Think twice about your words. You know what I can do.”

 

                “You can’t afford to kill any of my family for that.  You need them to keep me in line, so I’ll say whatever I damn well please,” Finnick tells him.  “You just tell this sick prick that Annie can’t do it.”

 

                “As I said –“

 

                “What if she kills herself?” Finnick yells.  “What if she winds up _dead_?”

 

                “Well, then I hope it will happen after the assignation, because I have quite a lot of money staked on it.  But she’ll have to do as she chooses, I suppose,” Snow says, his tone bland and frigid.  “If you’ll excuse me, I have quite a lot of work to do today.  Don’t call me again.”  And he hangs up.

 

                 Finnick whips the phone at the floor, kicks a chair, then finds himself sliding down the wall into a crouch, moaning.  He leans forward and puts his head on his knees, crying, shaking.  

 

                What is he going to do?

                


End file.
